Marcus shuffled on to his side and closed his eyes. For a moment his mind wandered, and then he found himself thinking of Portia. She was the closest he’d had to a friend for a long time. At first fearful of the consequences of speaking to her alone, he’d begun looking forward to more time with her once he assumed his duty as her bodyguard. But first he had to complete his training and wondered if this would be as hard and dangerous as that of Porcino’s gladiator school. One thing was clear: Marcus would be in as much danger on the streets of the capital as he had been facing wild wolves in the arena.
It was hours later, after his mind had turned over the situation with Crassus, Pompeius and Decimus a hundred times and he was still no closer to coming up with an answer, that Marcus’s weary mind finally began to embrace sleep.
‘Wake up, Marcus, you dozy fool!’ Festus shouted at him, whipping his cane out and flicking the end on to his shoulder. There was a burning pain and Marcus grimaced as he jumped back and held his club out in front of him, ready to parry the next blow. Marcus did not resent his hard treatment. After all, Festus was training him to survive, and he knew he’d been slow this morning, finding it difficult to concentrate after his miserable night. But he had reached a decision - he would bide his time and find out how Decimus fitted into Caesar’s world. Then he could decide how best to act. He focused himself once more on the fight, knowing these skills were needed to protect Portia.
‘That’s it.’ Festus nodded with satisfaction. ‘Much better, Marcus. Now stay alert. You can’t afford to react slowly in the streets. You could face an attack from any direction, at any time. And unless your eyes and ears are razor sharp it’ll be too late to do anything.’ Before he had completed his sentence his cane was lashing out again. This time he aimed it in a wide arc towards Marcus’s other shoulder. It was an obvious move and Marcus instinctively moved to block it. As soon as he did so Festus flicked the cane up and brought it down towards Marcus’s head, hissing through the air. Marcus dropped down on one knee and threw his club up so that the cane cracked against the shaft instead.
‘Good lad,’ Festus grunted approvingly as he stepped back and lowered the cane. Once again they were in the small yard at the side of the house where Festus trained and exercised his men. ‘When you’re outside the house that club will be the first weapon you can use in a fight. Any blades you carry will be tucked in your belt or hidden under your tunic. They’ll be no use if you’re suddenly attacked. They’re only for when you have time to draw them out. Or when it’s you that’s making the attack, or setting an ambush. Got that?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Of course, there’s more than one way to use the club,’ Festus continued as he swept his cane above his head. ‘Only an idiot or an untrained fighter, which comes to the same thing on the streets, just swings the thing around.’
He lowered the cane and thrust the tip forward, pulling back the blow at the last moment so the point gently tapped Marcus on the chest. Marcus did not flinch, or even blink, just as he’d been taught. Taurus had once said that a fight between gladiators was half won the moment one of the combatants stared out his opponent.
Festus chuckled approvingly. ‘Perhaps the master was right. There’s a natural warrior inside you. With the right training and provided you live long enough, you might be a fine gladiator one day.’
Marcus felt his blood chill at the thought. The last thing he wanted was to be forced to fight another person to the death just to entertain a bloodthirsty mob - two slaves turned on each other for the pleasure of their masters.
Suddenly he had the unnerving sensation of another person standing at his shoulder, watching over him. He glanced round briefly but saw only the plain weathered plaster on the wall of the yard. Nevertheless, he had felt the presence of something, or someone, and a chill rippled down his spine. Perhaps it was the shade of his father - his real father, Spartacus. What would he think of his son working for one of the most powerful men in Rome, someone who represented everything his father had fought against?
Marcus realized a brief silence had fallen and saw Festus looking at him irritably. He quickly recalled the last words spoken to him and hurriedly cleared his throat.
‘Yes, sir. I hope so. A champion that Caesar will be proud to own.’
Festus’s expression relaxed into a smile. ‘That’s the spirit, boy. You have ambition. I like that. Still, ambition is only a small part of the struggle towards greatness. A gladiator needs strength, self-discipline and skill, and these only come through absolute dedication and training. Is that clear? There are no short cuts.’
Marcus nodded, and Festus continued. ‘Now back to the lesson. It’s vital that you are adept with the club before you guard Mistress Portia. If you fail to protect her, you can be certain the master will make you pay for it with your life. In that case, what have you to lose? If you are forced to fight to save her, you must be prepared to die.’
‘Yes, master.’ Marcus nodded solemnly. He had a brief vision of rescuing Portia again, saving her from some faceless attackers. He pushed the image aside. ‘I understand.’
‘Of course, fighting is a last resort,’ Festus told him. ‘Escape is always the first and best option. A bodyguard must not think like a soldier. If there is a choice between fight or flight, then you must always get the person you are protecting out of danger. But if it comes to a fight, remember you can use the point of the club as well as slashing with it.’ He stabbed the tip of his cane savagely into the wall beside Marcus’s shoulder, cracking the surface and sending chips of plaster flying through the air.
‘See there.’
Marcus turned and saw the depression in the wall with the spidery lines leading out from the impact point. He could easily visualize the damage that blow could have done to flesh and blood.
‘Imagine that was a man’s face, or his chest,’ said Festus. ‘If you were lucky enough to strike him in the eye it would blind him, and perhaps kill him. Either way he would be out of the fight. A slashing blow from a club bruises muscles and might break bones, but it is a crude and clumsy technique and not as effective. Always look to end a fight as quickly as you can. There is no audience to please, no glory to be won. Just get it over with and get Mistress Portia to safety as soon as possible.’
They practised with the club for the rest of the day and Festus did not spare Marcus much pain as they sparred. Marcus gritted his teeth and continued, gradually refining his technique until he could block almost every blow, and anticipate his trainer’s moves. Towards the end of the afternoon he even began to land his own strikes on Festus, making little effort to take the sting out of his cuts, or the power out of his thrusts with the end of the club.
Finally, Festus ended the lesson, rubbing his wrist where Marcus had just landed a sharp blow. He nodded grudgingly. ‘You learn fast. Tomorrow we move on to the stave. Off to the kitchen with you. And get a good night’s sleep. We’ll start at first light.’
6
Dusk had closed over Rome by the time Marcus felt his way into the slave cell and dropped on his bedroll, exhausted. He touched the sore spots on his arms and chest where Festus had struck him during training and winced. There would be many more bruises in the days ahead. He lay on his back and shut his eyes. How he wished for his comfortable bed on the farm, with his mother and Titus asleep in the next room. Free to roam his father’s land and play with Cerberus. He even missed helping the shepherd round up the goats and then sitting and watching over them as Aristides hummed a tune from the shade of an olive tree. At the time he’d found it boring, but how peaceful it had been - he hadn’t even realized his own happiness.
The sound of shuffling steps and low muttering disturbed his sleep and his eyes flickered open. Sitting up with a start, he saw two shadows heading past his bedroll towards the far end of the cell.
‘Sorry,’ Lupus muttered. ‘Didn’t mean to wake you.’
Marcus eased himself back on to one elbow and twisted round towards them as the
two boys slumped on to their bedrolls. ‘You’re late to bed. What’s up?’
‘Flaccus, that’s what,’ Corvus growled. ‘He had the two of us scouring the storeroom floor. Rats had left droppings everywhere. Took forever to clean the place.’
‘That’s why I was roped in,’ Lupus added.
‘But not you, Marcus, eh?’ Corvus complained. ‘Seems you’re special. You’re in the master’s good books. Lucky you.’
Marcus ignored the sneering tone. ‘I’m still a slave, like you.’
‘Well, there are slaves and there are slaves,’ Corvus continued. ‘Kitchen boys like me, and scribes like Lupus here, and others like you.’
‘How am I different?’ asked Marcus.
‘You’re training to be Mistress Portia’s protector, right?’
‘Yes, so?’
‘So you get better food than us, and you’re favoured by the master. It’s different for the likes of us. We work in the kitchen from before first light until nightfall, later if the master has guests. I doubt he even knows I exist, so there’s never a small reward or a tip for me. That’s how we’re different.’
‘From what I heard,’ Lupus interrupted, ‘Caesar has you marked down to be one of his gladiators when you’re old enough.’
‘I’m already a gladiator,’ Marcus replied.
‘You?’ Corvus laughed. ‘You’re still a boy. How can you be a gladiator?’
‘I was trained at a school near Capua.’
‘Have you ever been in a fight?’ asked Lupus, sitting up and hugging his knees. ‘You know, in the arena?’
‘Once.’
‘What was it like?’
Marcus was silent for a moment as he recalled the moment he had entered Porcino’s small arena and walked across the sand to present himself to the wealthy Romans who had paid for a private show: four pairs of men and two boys, chosen to fight to the death. The memory filled his mind so vividly that he could recall the terror in his limbs, the sick feeling in his clenched stomach and the clammy sweat on his brow, even though the day had been chilly. Up above, in the box, the Romans laughed, snacked and placed their bets. He recalled that Caesar was busy chatting to a companion and had acknowledged the salute of Marcus and his opponent, Ferax, with a disdainful wave of his hand. Portia had been there too, though unlike the others, there seemed some pity in her eyes as she watched the spectacle. Then came the moment when Marcus turned to face Ferax and he recalled the fierce, cruel gleam in the young Gaul’s eyes as he announced, in a low contemptuous growl, that he would kill Marcus. That had been the worst moment of all. Even now he shuddered.
‘What was it like? I have never been more afraid of anything in my life.’ Marcus spoke softly. ‘There are no words to describe it. Just be grateful you have never had to live through it for yourself. ’
There was a brief silence before Corvus snorted. ‘Gladiators are supposed to be tough!’
‘Be quiet,’ Lupus said irritably. ‘Marcus has faced death. He knows.’
‘Then lucky him. If Fortuna smiles on him he’ll be dead before he’s twenty or he’ll have won his freedom. Not like us, my friend. We were born into slavery and we’ll be nothing more than common slaves until the day we die, or the master throws us out in the street to find our own graves. Ours is a living death. Your mate over there will never know what that means.’
Marcus listened to the exchange with a growing sense of bitterness. Unlike the other boys, he had been born free and lived free for the first ten years of his life. He knew what had been taken from him and felt that loss keenly, every day. He rolled on to his front and propped himself on his elbows, so he could face the others more directly.
‘Do you not hope for freedom? Don’t you even dream about it?’
‘Why bother?’ Corvus sniffed. ‘I can never buy my freedom. There’s no chance of coming to the master’s attention through hard work or loyal service. Nothing I do can change things. This cell, the kitchen and slaves like you are all I will ever know. The only thing that matters is keeping your head down to avoid being beaten.’
‘What about you, Lupus?’ Marcus asked. ‘Do you have no hope?’
The scribe was silent for a moment as he collected his thoughts. ‘There’s always hope. I’ve a plan. I can read, write and add up. If I work hard as Caesar’s scribe, then he might reward me one day. I know others in my position have managed to save enough to buy their freedom. If they can do it, then so can I.’
‘And then what?’ sneered Corvus. ‘After a lifetime slaving for Caesar, and having paid him for the privilege, then what will you do?’
‘I don’t know exactly. Perhaps I’ll also try to save enough to buy myself a small inn, close to the Great Circus. There’re always hungry mouths at the races. I can make a decent living and buy a few slaves of my own.’
What hope was there that slavery might end if the slaves themselves looked forward to being masters? Marcus sighed inwardly, but said nothing. He knew many slaves were like Corvus, unlikely to stir themselves if it meant adding to their existing hardship. Then there were the others, in vast chain-gangs, worked until they dropped and too exhausted to think beyond surviving the next day. He couldn’t bear to think of his mother enduring that. Perhaps Brixus had been right after all, he thought. Of all the evils in the world, slavery was the worst. To end it was the one cause worth fighting for, and dying for, if it came to that. He turned his attention back on his companions.
‘If you both hate slavery so much, then why don’t you do something about it?’
‘What?’ Corvus laughed. ‘Has all that fighting knocked the wits out of you? We’re just household slaves. There’s nothing we can do but endure it.’
‘You could fight it,’ Marcus suggested softly, in case he was overheard by anyone in the corridor outside. ‘You wouldn’t be the first slaves to defy their master. It’s been done before.’
There was a nervous pause before Lupus spoke up. ‘You’re talking about Spartacus, aren’t you?’
‘Of course.’
‘You should be careful what you say,’ Lupus hissed. ‘If Flaccus heard you he’d have you beaten. The gods know what Caesar would do if he found out. It was his friend, that Crassus, who crucified the slave rebels along the Appian Way. Is that what you want for yourself, Marcus?’
Marcus had heard of the terrible punishment imposed by Crassus, a man who was now the ally of Caesar, and apparently of Decimus too. Much as he’d come to admire his new master, Marcus was wary of his ambitions, and of those men Caesar called his friends. He was silent for a moment before he continued.
‘But what if Spartacus had won? You’d be free to do as you wanted, both of you. Isn’t that something worth fighting for?’
‘Maybe. But Corvus is right, there’s nothing we can do about it.’
‘Not alone,’ Marcus replied. ‘But there are slave bands in the hills and mountains, survivors of the rebellion, and those who escaped to join them. What’s to stop us doing the same?’
‘What’s the point?’ asked Corvus. ‘Why run away and live the rest of your life in some damp cave, always living in fear of the day you’re caught and punished? If that’s what you mean by freedom you can keep it.’
‘But what if there was a new leader to unite those bands of slaves?’ Marcus suggested. ‘A man like Spartacus? Someone who could train them how to fight the Roman legions, as he did?’
‘Spartacus is dead,’ Corvus said bluntly. ‘There is no one to replace him. The bands of slaves will be hunted down and destroyed one by one. That’s the truth of it, my gladiator friend. But if you’re so keen, why don’t you become the new Spartacus, eh? Take up the challenge. Be the champion of the downtrodden, and put an end to the greatest empire in the world while you’re at it.’ He laughed again, a hollow unpleasant laugh. ‘I’m tired. So is Lupus. We need to sleep. Keep your fancy dreams to yourself, Marcus.’
Corvus settled down and curled into a ball under his blanket. Lupus stayed sitting for a moment before he
whispered, ‘Could it be done? Another revolt? Could we win next time?’
Marcus took a deep breath and sighed. ‘I really don’t know . . .’
‘A pity,’ Lupus muttered. ‘I’d have liked to know what it is to be free.’
He lowered himself down and began to breathe deeply, then started to snore. Once again, Marcus felt sleep wouldn’t be so easy for him. He turned on to his back and stared up at the ceiling, deep in thought.
7
As the days of early spring passed, Marcus learned to use all the weapons that Festus required him to master before he could be entrusted with Portia’s safety. He’d had no further opportunity to see Pompeius or to learn more about Decimus’s involvement in Caesar’s political circle. Marcus was sure his influence couldn’t be good, but he could no more prove that to his master than he could hope to escape and find his mother on his own. For now, he resigned himself to doing well at his task and hoping that Caesar might reward him in a way that would help his cause.
Festus had taken Marcus into the streets on a few occasions to teach him to blend in with a crowd and watch for signs he was being followed, or for any ambushes. He was also taught the layout of the heart of Rome and districts that surrounded it. There was one place Festus didn’t take him, an area on the side of the Aventine Hill known as ‘The Pit’, where some of the hardest street gangs in Rome were to be found.
‘Trust me, Marcus, you never want to go anywhere near The Pit. The men that live there are animals . . .’
Besides the club and staff Marcus learned how to use knives, and how to throw them. Festus had hurled a blade across the yard so that it landed a short distance from the centre, handle canted up at a slight angle.
‘A good strike will usually bring a man down if it hits him close to the spine, or in the back of a knee. But that would be a lucky throw. You’re more likely to just slow him down and make him bleed a bit before you can close the distance and finish him off. That’s if you’re good enough to hit him in the first place.’
Gladiator: Street fighter Page 5